


Spit-Polish and Shine

by jemariel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sam Winchester is Scarred For Life, Sex on a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: You know how Dean Winchester doesn't wear shorts?Well. Sometimes he does.Unredeemed filthy porn on a car.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 61
Kudos: 752





	Spit-Polish and Shine

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you just need to write some good old fashioned smut.
> 
> This was basically a bot-prompt on the Profound Bond discord, which you can join [HERE](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) if you feel like hanging out with a bunch of other destiel nerds. Quick beta by [Banshee1013](https://banshee1013.tumblr.com/) tyvm!
> 
> Enjoy ;-9

The shorts are _very_ short.

They are absolutely not the sort of thing Dean would normally wear, not even for washing Baby, but he’d seen the way Cas’s eyes had gone wide and dark and the way he couldn’t stop staring at the bowed curve of his thighs and the— _embarrassing_ —hint of asscheek that pops out under the fraying hem when he bends over. It’s hard to be embarrassed when your boyfriend can’t stop openly drooling at you, though.

In fact, it’s a hell of a confidence booster.

“You ready, big guy?” Dean practically purrs as he saunters across the garage to where Cas is perched on a wooden chair, already flushed, hair raked up and knee twitching. Dean’s aching to touch him, to straddle his denim-clad thighs, or maybe sink down between them, pop open the buttons of his fly and drive him crazy. But they’ve got a plan, and Dean’s going to stick to it. It’s all about the anticipation.

“You look—” Cas tries to answer, then swallows his tongue, balls his hands into fists and shoves them between his thighs. Draws his knees together, squeezing tight.

Fuck, this is gonna be fun.

Dean turns, hyper-aware of every movement his body makes, skin aflame with Cas’s gaze, and scrolls his music until he finds the right song in his playlist. A rough a capella opening and then a dirty guitar riff, a hard downbeat that makes it easy to wiggle and strut. He can almost (but not quite) forget that he’s putting on a show and not just dancing for his own joy as he dips a huge, soft sponge into the suds and gets to work. By the time Def Leppard is begging _pour some sugar on me,_ he’s fully into his swing. Baby needs washed, and he needs to bend _allll_ the way over her hood, getting slick suds absolutely everywhere, all over the car and his tight black T-shirt. He has to get one foot up on the tire and hoist himself up to reach over the hood, muscles of his thighs and arm straining with holding himself up. He’s gotta squat down with his thighs spread wide to reach the lowest part of her doors and scrub away the dirt.

In the moments of silence between the songs, his ears zero in on Cas. He’s breathing in hard little huffs, marked by the rhythm of his arm as he pleasures himself.

Dean can’t help glancing back over his shoulder, and holy _shit_. Cas is a wreck. He’s got his fly open and he’s curled over himself, like he’s trying to hide his sin from the light of day, but Dean can just barely see the head of his dick, shiny with precome, popping in and out of his fingers. Dean stalls in his supposed chore, just watching for a second. His lips fall open, his mouth suddenly, enormously empty.

Then the music kicks back in. Dean locks eyes with Cas just for a second—absolutely wrecked, Jesus—and winks.

“Dean,” Cas groans, almost a whine, and his whole body clenches.

Dean’s not done yet.

He’s soaped and sudsed the car as good as he needs to, and he’s a damp, sudsy mess all up and down his stomach and hips. The cutoff denim of his shorts clings to his own half-chub, a cool-rough cupping sensation on over-sensitive flesh. “Looks like I made a mess,” he says.

Cas’s eyes zero in on the obscene outline of Dean’s cock, and Dean can hear his whine even over the music. Watches him mouth the word ‘ _please._ ’

Dean just smirks and grips the hem of his soaked T-shirt. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he drags it up over his abs, his chest, tugging it off his shoulders and finally his arms. His nipples peak, damp and chilly, and he warms them up with his palms for a moment before sliding his hands over his stomach, down to the fly of his shorts.

There’s a fierce hunger in every line of Cas’s body. His hand has almost stopped moving, but he looks ready to snap.

But Dean just frames the bulge of his dick in the diamond of his thumb and forefingers, and gives one ludicrous, obscene thrust, before turning around and grabbing the hose. 

“Fuck,” he hears from Cas, and the scrape of the chair’s feet along he concrete floor. Dean’s almost ready to laugh as he rinses the car down, washing all the suds down the drain, making sure Cas gets a great view of his muscles as he aims the spray.

So he’s not expecting it when suddenly Cas is right behind him, fully dressed against Dean’s near-nakedness, shoving him forward until his knees hit the Impala’s grill. “Shit,” Dean gasps, and loses his grip on the hose. A brief wayward spritz rains over them, but Dean’s focused on Cas’s heat, the strength of his arms as they wrap around him from behind, dipping down to cup him through his shorts. “Fuck, yeah, Cas,” he groans, and bends himself over the hood, ass lifted in a clear suggestion.

Cas’s groan is rough in his ear, and the press of his bare cock against the back of Dean’s thigh is like a hot iron branding him. Then Cas’s fingers are scrabbling at Dean’s fly, shoving those stupid shorts down his hips. “Right pocket,” Dean manages to grit out, even though he’s about to pop.

Cas’s fingers fish out the little travel-sized lube packet, and there’s a hideous fumbling moment when Cas’s hands are _not_ on Dean’s body, but then he’s back, two slick fingers sliding right into Dean’s ass without ceremony or preamble. Fuck, it’s perfect, just the barest raw edge of a burn, and Dean’s groan rips from his throat, “Ah, son of a _bitch—”_

“Okay?” Cas asks.

“Yeah, fuck, perfect, do it—” Dean’s already leaking on Baby’s freshly-washed hood, and he just needs to get _fucked—_

Cas’s fingers slide out, and the solid heat of his cock, slick with the last of the lube and his own precome, pushes right into Dean’s hole, spearing him wide, pinning him in place between the hood of his car and Cas’s muscular weight. “Fuck yes, yes yes yes yes,” Dean whines, hot all over and ready to burst.

And Cas just. Stays there. Doesn’t even move.

Dean barely even needs a few seconds to adjust before he’s whining and shoving his hips back, “Come on, Cas, fuck—”

Cas’s fingers go iron-tight on his hips. “Dean—” he grates out. “Don’t move. If you—fuck. If you want this to last.”

That gets Dean grinning. “You close, old man?” Just to be a brat, he deliberately clenches down on Cas’s iron-hard dick in his ass. 

That gets him what he wants: Cas breaks. With a huff like a raging bull, he flops forward, bracing himself with arms on Dean’s shoulders, and then he’s ramming home over and over, fucking into Dean’s body like a jackhammer, knocking his knees into the bumper and his hips into the grill and Dean does not fucking care about the bruises or the smears, because he’s going to fucking come all over his car with his angel plowing him from behind and—

“Oh Jesus,” Dean groans. There’s no fucking room to get a hand on his dick, it’s just the motion of Cas’s hips shoving it against the steel-hard grill and that’s enough, that’s fucking all he needs, and like a bolt of lightning from his cock to his toes to his ears, he comes. “ _Fuck!_ ” he cries, over and over, as he breaks apart under Cas’s thrusts, thighs shaking where they’re still trapped in his shorts.

“Dean,” Cas groans over him. “Dean—oh—” His thrusts get impossibly harder, tighter, deeper, hips slapping into Dean’s asscheeks, and then he’s coming as deep as he can fucking get in Dean’s ass, a hand on Dean’s shoulder and a hand on his hip and his breath panting hot on the back of Dean’s neck.

Fucking hell.

They stay like that for a long moment. Their breaths fog together on the Impala’s hood. Dean’s a boneless mess, and Cas is hardly better, melting into each other like chocolate left on the dash on a hot day.

Neither of them are in any state to hear the footsteps outside the garage under the music, still blaring.

“Hey, Dean, I—Oh, sweet Jesus!” It’s Sam’s voice.

The lassitude snaps from Dean’s muscles in an instant, and he looks up to watch Sam’s flannel and hair disappearing at the speed of sound. As he retreats, Dean can hear his plaintive objections. “On the car, Dean? Seriously??” 

There’s not much Dean can do, not when Cas’s cock has only just now slipped out of his body and he’s still feeling the endorphins of a really good fuck.

Cas hasn’t moved either, stunned into stillness, probably.

So Dean does the only thing he can do: He surrenders to the giggles that bubble up from his belly.

“Sorry, Sammy!” he calls out. Cas’s chest shakes against Dean’s back, his own laughter quiet and hidden in Dean’s skin.

From the depths of the hallway, barely audible, he hears, “You are so cleaning that up!”

Dean cranes his neck to catch Cas’s eye. “What’d’ya think, babe? Should I wash the car again?”

Cas groans against his shoulder. “Give me a few minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked! Feel free to drop me a line here or on [tumblr](https://jemariel.tumblr.com/) or come hang out on [Profound Bond](http://discord.profoundbond.net/)


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